Tim McCarver was never too bright. Perhaps that's why Steve Carlton wanted him for his personal catcher. But I fear that whatever mental ability he once had has been eaten by Norwegian wharf rats. A few minutes ago, right after the Tigers got the final out, he "informed" the viewing public, as if he were sharing some sort of expertise, that the win was Detroit's first World Series victory at home since they clinched the championship in 1984. Since this is the first time that Detroit has played in the World Series since 1984, however, that news probably didn't come as a tremendous shock to anyone who has a passing knowledge of baseball history or, barring that, merely read the newspaper or watched ESPN prior to the start of the Series. I've never like McCarver's partner Joe Buck, despite that fact that his father was one of the classic announcers. But it pains me to have come to detest McCarver's voice, considering how much I liked him when I was a Phillies fan in elementary school.
It's Disneyland, supposedly. And we do love our trips there, despite having to confront the raw underbelly -- more like an overbelly, come to think of it -- of these United States as we wend our way through the teeming hordes to our favorite attractions. For us, though, I'm pretty sure that the stretch of California coast between Legoland and the Seaside Market qualifies as the spot of maximum collective bliss. And the epicenter is Pannikin:We didn't have one of our marathon half-day sessions there this time, since our visit was short and we spent a good deal of it in the Magic Kingdom. But we made up for quantity with quality. Heck, even the short-haired barista who exemplifies "tom boy" smiled at me this morning, instead of giving me her usual glare for being with that hot Italian-American chick you see on the left.